


What’s Next?

by JewishDavidJacobs



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Albert as Laurie, Alternate Universe - The West Wing Fusion, David as Donna, Denton as Leo, F/F, F/M, Hannah as Mrs. Landingham, I really can’t emphasize that enough, Jack as Josh, Jewish David Jacobs, Jewish Jack Kelly, Jewish Spot Conlon, Katherine as C.J., M/M, Please don’t take this an indication that I ship Toby and Sam, Race as Sam, Rafaela as Mandy, Ralbert only in the first chapter, Ready to discover where most of my political rants and jokes come from?, Sarah as Danny, Specs as Charlie, Spoilers for all of The West Wing, Spot as Toby, West Wing AU, because I do not ship Toby and Sam, season one, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25696510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JewishDavidJacobs/pseuds/JewishDavidJacobs
Summary: “They’ve been waiting for you to trip over your mouth and you handed it to them, Jack. It’s Christmas morning in that camp. You’re a Fulbright scholar. Are you honestly the only adult in America who doesn’t think you’re about to be fired?”Or: I wrote a West Wing au.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 13
Kudos: 16





	What’s Next?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! If you watch the West Wing, you’ll probably notice that with the exception of a few added pieces of dialogue and scenes, this first chapter is almost word for word the pilot. I promise that characters will have their own voices and plot will change slightly in future chapters, but there’s really no way to better introduce this story and these characters than how the show did.
> 
> Also, this takes place in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Therefore, the world issues it discusses are relevant to that time.

“Two absolute martinis up, another dewars rocks,” the bartender says, handing them their drinks.

“I don’t think we’re gonna run the table, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says.

“It’s not,” the reporter replies. “Deep background. I’m not gonna come close to using your name.”

He laughs and takes a sip. “You’re not gonna come close to getting a quote, either.”

The atmosphere is heavy only for them. Around the room, people go about their night. The chatter is all background noise and mindless, but there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do to join in. He’s regretting not just going home for a drink instead.

“Why are we sitting here?” the reporter asks with an air of frustration.

_ “You _ sat down. I was here.”

“Is Jack on his way out?”

“No.”

“Is he?”

“What did I just say?”

“I know he’s your friend.”

“He is,” he agrees.

“Did Caldwell say—”

“Billy, I’m not talking about this.”

“Who do I call?” he asks.

“No one.”

“Just tell me who to call.”

“Well, you could call one eight-hundred bite me.”

“Race…”

“He’s not going anywhere, Billy. It’s a non-story. Take my advice and don’t go chasing something that isn’t there.”

Billy laughs. “Are you kidding me? A non-story? Yeah, a non-story that’s going to be on the front page of every major publication in the United States tomorrow. You’re lying.”

“That hurts real bad, Billy. Why would I lie to a journalist of all people?” he asks sarcastically.

“Why do you keep looking over my shoulder?”

“Why?”

“Yes.”

“Because Alger Hiss just walked in with my secret pumpkin.”

“What?” Billy doesn’t get the reference. 

“There’s a guy over there, I think he’s looking at me.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know. I never know if they’re looking or not.”

Billy fully turns around. “Yeah, I think he was.”

Race sighs. “I want to thank you for the casual way that you did that just now. He probably didn’t notice that.”

“Whatever. You’re not into guys anyway, right?”

“Right,” he lies. 

The man is in a well tailored suit. It’s impossible not to look at his fiery red hair or his cutting smile. His skin is pale and freckled. It's lighter than Spot’s — and isn’t  _ that _ a thought to examine at a later date? He’s incredibly attractive. 

It’s pointless to pretend he isn’t paying attention anymore, so Race looks at him. The man’s smile grows. 

“Seventeen across is wrong. It’s just wrong,” Denton announces to his housekeeper as she lays out breakfast. “Can you believe that, Ruth?”

“You should call them.”

He knows the answer is sarcastic, but he doesn’t much mind. “I  _ will _ call them.”

“Telephone, Bryan,” his wife calls.

“I’m in the shower.” It’s the lie they always use to get out of phone calls they don’t want to take.

“It’s POTUS.”

He sighs and picks up. “Hello?”

“You can have a normal life,” Katherine pants. She hasn’t been to the gym in a while and she’s feeling it. She’s really not sure why she picked the treadmill, either. She’s always hated it. “You’d be amazed at how normal I can be. It’s all about budgeting your time. This time, this hour — this is my time. Five a.m. to six a.m. I can work out, I can think about personal matters, I can meet an interesting man.” She laughs breathlessly and gestures to the man she’s speaking to.

“Beeper’s going,” he says.

“What?”

“I think your beeper’s going.”

She takes it out of her pocket and reads it, still jogging. Shocked by what she sees, she zones out and the next thing she knows, she’s on the floor.

The man vacuuming in his office doesn’t wake him, but the phone does. He’s been working all night and only fell asleep on his desk about two hours ago. There’s papers everywhere, pens, pencils, food wrappers. It’s all very disorganized. David will kill him later, but he doesn’t have the energy to care.

He blinks and picks it up. “Yeah, this is Jack Kelly. What’s going on?”

“We ask at this time that you turn off all electronic devices,” a hostess’ voice comes through the speaker above his head, “stow your tray tables, and return your seat backs to the full and upright position. We will be landing shortly at Washington-Dulles Airport and would like to thank you for flying with us.”

“Sir, you need to turn off your computer,” a hostess appears next to him and says. 

“I’m just about done.”

“I need you to turn off your laptop, sir; it interferes with our navigational systems,” she explains, exasperated.

“You know when you guys say that it sounds pretty ridiculous to most people, right?” He keeps typing.

“Sir—”

“Mr. Conlon?” another hostess says, approaching his seat.

“That’s me.”

“A message was just patched up to the cockpit for you. I’m not sure I’ve got it right. POTUS in a bicycle accident?”

He looks up at her and finally stops typing. “You got it right.” She leaves and he picks up his phone to make a call, but the first woman is still standing next to him.

“You can’t use your phone until we land, sir.”

“We’re flying in a Lockheed Eagle series L-1011. It came off the line twenty months ago. It carries a SIM-5 transponder tracking system.” He waves his cell around lazily. “Are you telling me I can still flummox this thing with something I bought at Radio Shack?”

She sighs. “You can call when we land, sir.”

“Also,” he calls to her as she walks away, “I never got my peanuts.”

“How you doing, Race?” Albert is lying in bed. The bathroom door is open and Race is in the shower. 

“The water pressure in here is really impressive.”

“I know.”

“You can run hydraulics in here.” He dries off and pulls his underwear on.

“You want some?” Albert offers up the joint he’s smoking. He’s only wearing a button down and boxers, and the top half of the shirt’s buttons aren’t done up. The white sheets are draped over him in a way that looks intentional. Race is tempted to get back into bed. 

“I’m fine.”

“I’m wasted.”

“And probably free of cataracts,” Race jokes. 

“I get that, that’s funny.”

“Thank you.”

Albert sits up suddenly. “Oh, wait, I’m sorry. Your pager went off while you were in the shower. I hit the button ’cause I thought it was mine. ‘POTUS in a bicycle accident. Come to the office.’ I memorized it just in case I erased it by accident.”

He sounds proud of himself. He’s higher than Race thought.

Freaking out slightly, Race gets dressed in a hurry. He sniffs his undershirt from yesterday. Not perfect, but it will have to do.

Albert holds the pagers side by side. “These things look exactly alike. Anyway, like I said, I’m totally baked. Though, it’s not like I’m a drug person, I just love pot.”

“Uh, Albert, I have to go.”

“You’re kidding me,” he says. “It’s five thirty in the morning.”

“I know this doesn’t look good.”

He frowns. “Not that good, no.”

“But you know what? I really like you. If you give me your number, I’ll call you.”

“Stay right here. Save yourself a call.” He wraps his arms around Race’s torso as he pulls his pants on.

“It’s not that I don’t see the logic in that, but I really gotta go.”

“’Cause ‘POTUS’ was in a bicycle accident?”

“Yup.”

Albert writes his number down on a notebook and rips it out. He tucks it into Race’s front pocket and kisses him one more time.

“Tell your friend POTUS he’s got a funny name and he should learn how to ride a bike.”

“I would, but he’s not my friend, he’s my boss and it’s not his name, it’s his title.”

“POTUS?”

“Yeah. President of the United States.” He rushes out the door. “I’ll call you!”

Denton makes his way into the office and past the security guard at the entrance.

“It’s a nice morning, Mr. Denton.”

“We’ll take care of that in a hurry, won’t we, Mike?”

“Yes, sir.”

People call for him as he strides down halls.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Denton,” someone says as they hand him a file.

“Why the hell not?”

“Five minutes?”

“Please.”

“Hey, Emma.”

“Morning.”

“Wilson.”

“Hey, Denton.”

“Joe.”

“It’s Jeffrey.”

“Whatever. Jack!” he yells.

“Morning, David,” he says as the man sits down at his desk. It’s located in the cubicle right outside Jack’s office. The top half is windows so everyone in the bullpen can see each other.

“Morning, Denton.”

“Is he in yet?”

David looks up at him from where he’s stirring his yogurt. “Yeah.” Then he looks back down and doesn’t do anything.

Denton waits a moment and then sighs and softly asks “Can you get him, then?”

David stares directly at him and yells “Jack!”

“Thanks, ’cause I couldn’t have done that.”

“I heard it’s broken,” David says. He’s leaning forward slightly and Denton can’t tell if he’s genuinely curious or just after gossip to entertain the other senior assistants with.

“You heard wrong.”

“I heard—”

“It’s a mild sprain, he’ll be back later today.”

“And what was the cause of the accident?” David asks.

“What are you, from State Farm? Go, do a job, would you?”

“I’m just—”

“He was swerving to avoid a tree,” Denton explains as he walks past the desk towards Jack’s office, sick of waiting for him.

“And what happened?”

“He was unsuccessful.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Jack is saying into his phone, “just don’t do anything till you talk to Justice. Okay, bye.”

“How many Cubans exactly have crammed themselves into these fishing boats?” he asks without preamble. He’s too fired up (and absolutely furious with him) to make conversation with Jack more than is necessary. 

“It’s important to understand, Denton, that they’re not fishing boats. You hear fishing boats, you conjure the image of…well, of a boat, first of all.” Jack starts moving. “What the Cubans are on would charitably be described as rafts, okay?”

Denton rolls his eyes. He’s tired and it’s only six thirty.

“They’re making the hop from Havana to Miami in fruit baskets, basically. Let’s just be clear on that.”

“We are.”

“Davey’s desk, if it could float, would look good to them right now.”

“I get it! How many are there?”

“We don’t know,” Jack says, leaving the office and throwing something on David’s desk. 

“What time exactly did they leave?”

“We don’t know.” He leans on the cubicle.

“Do we know when they get here?”

“No.”

“True or false: if I were to stand on high ground in Key West with a good pair of binoculars I’d be as informed as I am right now.”

“That’s true.”

“The intelligence budget’s money well spent, isn’t it?”

David snorts behind them and Jack playfully pushes his head. The tiny giggling sound he makes temporarily distracts Jack from their conversation and Denton holds back an exasperated sigh.

“If you’re going to physically assault your assistant, can you at least do it when I can’t see? I’d like plausible deniability.”

“Nobody cares.”

Denton rolls his eyes. “Sure. Someday, somebody's going to walk by and see it and complain and then it’ll be a thing.”

“Hey!” Jack yells and his whole bullpen stops what they’re doing and looks at him. “Does anybody care when I push Davey?”

“No,” they all drone back.

Denton rolls his eyes. He works with idiots.

Jack holds his hands out towards the general area as if to say “See?”

“Does it matter if  _ I _ care?” David asks. He must be tired because there’s a hint of a Polish accent on the word “care.”

“When am I gonna get that report I asked for fifteen minutes ago?” Jack asks, probably by way of deflection. 

“Look on your desk, where I left it twelve minutes ago.”

“I’m going to be fired one day and it’s because I hired you two,” Denton says.

“You didn’t hire me,” David replies.

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure him hiring you is the only reason Jack’s still alive.”

Jack scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“That’s true.”

“Whatever. Denton,” he says, “tell him to send in the Coast Guard.”

“We can’t just—”

“I understand,” Jack argues with a raised voice, following him, “but they’re never going to make it to our territorial waters. What if the D.E.A. suspected they had drugs?”

_ “Does _ the D.E.A. suspect they have drugs?”

Jack shrugs. “We can make a phone call.”

“Jack!” 

“If the D.E.A. or Navy Intel thought the Cubans were bringing in drugs wouldn’t we have to go out there and search those rafts with, you know, guns and…blankets?”

Denton takes a second to get a good look at him. “You look like hell, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. Listen, Denton, did he say anything?”

Denton stops walking to stare at him incredulously. “Did he say anything? The president’s pissed as hell at you, Jack, and so am I.”

“I know.”

“We got to work with these people!” They pass through the Roosevelt Room. “And where the hell do you get off strutting your—”

“I know!”

“Al Caldwell’s a good man.”

“Al Caldwell wasn’t there!”

“I’m saying you take everyone on the Christian right, dump them into one pile and lable them stupid!” They move through the communications bullpen. “We need these people.”

“We do not  _ need _ these people. We need Al Caldwell — we  _ want _ Al Caldwell. We do not need John Van Dyke, we do not need Mary Marsh.”

“And I think there shouldn’t be instant replay in football, but that’s not my call, now is it?”

Jack huffs. “It was stupid.”

“Damn straight.”

He stops following Denton.

“I  _ was _ right, though.”

“Like I don’t know that,” Denton whispers to himself. He enters the outer office of the Oval and says good morning to Hannah.

“Have they done an x-ray?” she asks, following him into the Oval.

“Yep.”

“Anything broken?”

“A four-thousand dollar Lynex titanium touring bike that I swore I’d never lend to anyone.”

“I don’t understand. How did he—”

“He’s a klutz, Hannah! Your president’s a geek.” He takes the file he needs off the desk and bumps into Hot Shot in the hallway.

“Oh, Hot Shot, call O.E.O.B and set up a briefing for the vice president and let’s coordinate with Katey Simons’ office on the appointments.”

“Sure. Should I get everybody in?”

“Yeah. Romeo! Please call the editor of the  _ New York Times _ Crossword and tell them that Khaddafi is spelt with an H and two Ds and isn’t a seven-letter word for anything.”

“Is this for real or is this just funny?” he asks.

“Apparently it’s neither.”

His office is filled with senior staff. They’re standing, sitting, draped across armrests. It’s a sign that they should probably have these meetings somewhere else (or with less people), but none of them are inclined to deal with that.

“Is there anything I can say other than ‘the president rode his bicycle into a tree’?” Katherine asks.

“He hopes never to do it again.”

“Seriously, they’re laughing pretty hard out there.”

He huffs. “He rode his bicycle into a tree, Katherine. What do you want me to say? ‘The president, while riding his bicycle on his vacation in Jackson Hole came to a sudden arboreal stop.’ What do you want from me?”

“A little love, Denton.”

“What do you know about the Cubans?” His question is directed at Race.

“Don’t know any more than Jack. Between twelve-hundred and two thousand Cubans began embarking from a fishing village thirty miles south of Havana.”

“Where are they headed?” someone asks.

“Vegas,” Jack jokes.

“Miami, but it’s not clear how sophisticated their navigational equipment—”

“Navigational equipment? ‘That way is north’ is pretty much—”

“Jack.”

“Katherine, if one of these guys could throw a split-fingered fastball we’d send in the U.S.S. Eisenhower, okay? We don’t care about people from poor countries until they fit the role we want them to even if it’s racist.”

“Especially if it’s racist,” David mutters.

“Is there a reason you're here?” Denton asks.

“Jack never remembers anything people say.”

“For God’s sake,” Spot says, “forget about the journey. The voyage is not our problem.”

“What’s our problem?” Katherine asks him.

“What to do when the  _ Nina,  _ the _ Pinta, _ and the  _ Get Me the Hell Out of Here _ hit Miami.” 

“Race?” Denton prompts.

“Can’t send them back. They’d go to jail if they’re lucky.”

Denton knew that wouldn’t be what happened.

“We’ll get whacked in, what—”

“Three districts at least,” Race answers Spot. “Dade County.”

“Those seats are gone,” Spots says.

“Not to mention the fact that it’s wrong?” Jack interjects.

“Plus that.”

“What about Texas?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Keep Jack in the loop on this throughout the day,” Denton orders Race. 

“Me? My day’s kinda tight.” He lingers in the doorway and chews on a cuticle.

“Deal with it,” Spot commands.

“And I’m happy to, it’s just that…”

“Race!”

“I’m just saying, isn’t this more of a military area?”

Everyone swivels and looks at him like he’s an idiot.

“Military.”

“Yeah.”

“You think the United States is under attack from twelve-hundred Cubans in rowboats?” Spot laughs.

“I’m not saying I don’t like our chances.”

“Mind-boggling to me that we ever won an election.”

“Pat Thomas wants to call up the Guard,” Denton says, moving on. 

“He shouldn’t.”

“He’s right.”

“You send in the Guard, you create a panic situation.”

“I agree with Jack and I agree with Katherine and I agree with Race,” Spot says, “and you know how that makes me crazy.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“They’re running for their lives. You don’t have to start a game of red rover with Castro, but you don’t send in the National Guard. You send food, you send doctors.”

Spot is right, of course. If only it could be that simple. If Denton had it his way, he would have sent boats out to rescue them and bring them to shore hours ago. But life isn’t that simple and neither is international politics. 

“Race,” Jack says, “see that I.N.S. is working with the Red Cross and the Centers for Disease Control.”

“My C.D.C. guy’s on the phone.”

“Go!” Denton yells. “Talk to him!” 

“I’ll go talk to him,” Race mumbles, pointing down the hall and leaves. 

“Moving on,” Denton says. “Let’s talk about Jack.”

“Al Caldwell scares the hell out of the president and Jack knows it.” Billy is trying to convince a fellow reporter as they head to the briefing.

“He’s not going to fire him,” she says. 

“He’s got no choice.”

“Billy, the president’s not gonna fire Jack Kelly!”

“He doesn’t have a choice,” he reiterates.

The buzzer sounds and they move into the briefing room with everybody else.

“I had drinks with Race Higgins last night.”

“And he said the president’s going to fire Jack?”

“He needs these people, he’s gonna have to give them Jack.”

“Folks, take a seat,” Katherine calls from the podium at the front of the room.

“Billy—”

“He doesn’t have a choice.” They sit.

“Good morning,” Katherine says, starting the briefing. “Dr. Randall Haymen, that’s H-A-Y-M-E-N, Chief of Orthopedics at St. John’s Hospital has diagnosed the president with a mild sprain in his left ankle sustained while cycling into a large Cyprus tree.”

They all chuckle and she smirks.

“Details can be found in the pool report being distributed now along with pool photographs of the president resisting the help of a Secret Service agent and then falling down again. By all means, enjoy yourselves. Item two—”

“Katherine, is the president—”

“It’s a light day, Chris. Let’s just get through this and then I’ll take a couple questions. Item two: the Association of Retired Municipal…”

Jack sits alone in his dark office, staring at the television. He hits play. The screen displays him sitting next to Mary Marsh and they’re having a heated debate.

“Thirty-eight states and—”

“No, well, I can tell you that you don’t believe in any god I pray to, Mr. Kelly, not any god I pray to.”

“Lady, the god you pray to is too busy being indicted for tax fraud,” he hurls back.

Jack stares at himself, rage in his eyes. He rewinds the tape. The satisfying noise it makes that usually entertains him angers him further.

“I can tell you that you don’t believe in any god I pray to, Mr. Kelly, not any god I pray to.”

“Lady, the god you pray to is too busy being indicted for tax fraud.”

He rewinds again. Stupidly, he wishes for a remote that could rewind to yesterday before he went on the show. A remote that would beat some sense into him. Moments like this are the ones that make him realize how young and stupid he can really be sometimes.

“Lady, the god you pray to is too busy being indicted for tax fraud.”

“You shouldn’t have worn that tie on television.” David’s suddenly behind him, a mug in his hand. “It bleeds.”

Jack pauses the television. “I don’t think it’s the tie that got me in trouble.”

“Yeah, but I told you a zillion times.”

“What’s that?” He gestures with the remote.

David glances down. “It’s coffee.”

Jack sighs. “I thought so.”

“I brought you some coffee,” he says innocently.

“What’s going on, Davey?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Davey—”

“I brought you some coffee!”

“Close the door.”

David puts the mug down and does as he’s told. He stands in front of the desk.

“David Avraham Jacobs, when did you start working for me?”

“During the campaign.”

“And how long have you been my assistant?”

“A year and a half.”

“And when’s the last time you brought me coffee?”

David doesn’t answer.

“It was never,” he says. “You’ve never brought me a cup of coffee.”

“Well, if you’re gonna make a big deal out of it—”

“Davey, if I get fired, I get fired.”

David plucks at the cuff of his shirt. It’s frayed. Jack isn’t sure if that’s because it’s an old shirt or if it’s because David spends so much time nervously playing with his sleeves.

“Do you think he’s gonna do it?”

Jack can’t handle how sad he looks. He pretends to be interested in a paper on his desk, but he can still feel David’s presence.

“No,” he breathes softly.

Somebody knocks lightly on the door. “It’s Spot.”

“You won that election for him,” David says. “You and Denton and Katherine and Race.”

He knocks again, louder this time. “Open the damn door.”

“And him,” David adds in a whisper.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he says as he leaves.

“Davey brought you coffee?”

“Shut up!” David shouts back.

“What’s up?” Jack asks, mock casual. 

Spot exhales heavily and closes the door behind him. “What’d I tell you before you went on the air yesterday?”

“You said ‘Don’t get cute with Mary Marsh.’”

“I said ‘Don’t get cute with Mary Marsh,’” he confirms. “I said Al Caldwell is not to be treated like some revival tent clown.”

“Al Caldwell wasn’t there.”

“He sure as hell was watching.”

“Look, I already took Denton’s morning beating. What do you want?”

“I want you to keep your job.”

Jack sends him a small smile. “How?”

“I’m gonna make a suggestion which might help you out, but I don’t want this gesture to be mistaken for an indication that I like you.”

Jack humors him. “I understand.”

Spot takes a moment to begin. “In preparation for the Sunday morning radio address on family values—”

“When did that get on the schedule?”

“Listen to me for one second.”

“When did it get on the schedule?” 

“The regular Sunday morning. Listen to me for—”

“Yeah, but when did we schedule family values?” he asks hostilely.

“We scheduled it, Jack, after your smug, taunting, you know, calamitous performance on  _ Capital Beat!” _ he yells. “America for Better Families — the A.A.F. — and Al Caldwell…Mary Marsh. I invited them all for coffee this afternoon along with a couple of speech writers to talk about—”

“What they want to hear.”

“Yes.”

“You know, if you listen carefully you can hear two centuries of presidents rolling over in their graves.” He comes around the front of his desk to face Spot.

“Come to the meeting.”

“No!” 

“Come to the meeting and be nice.”

“Why?”

“So Katherine can put it in the papers.”

“Al Caldwell’s friends with bad people. I think he should say so for the common good,” he yells. “Screw politics — How about that?”

“You don’t run social policy for this government! How about that?” he fires back.

“Spot!”

“I’m in charge of the message around here! It’s my job to tell the president that the best thing he can do from a PR standpoint is to show you the door.”

Neither of them speak for a few seconds. Jack knows Spot is right. He also knows that Spot is more than a little disgusted with himself. There’s nothing either of them hate more than giving into people who try to further their hateful agendas the way Marsh does.

“Come to the meeting,” he says quietly. “Be nice. Keep your job.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

He’s thankful for what Spot is doing, even if he doesn’t express it well. He would do the same thing, excerpt there won’t be a chance because Spot would never be stupid enough to do something like that.

“Oh, by the way,” Spot says. “One of the kids in the newsroom clipped this today.” He takes a small piece of paper out of his pocket.

Jack looks at it. “What’s she doing in town?”

He smirks. “I’m looking into it.”

When he’s gone, Jack sits down and looks at it more closely. “That’s a good picture of her.”

She speeds down the road in her convertible, phone to her ear. “Bruce? Bruce? Bruce! I may have just gotten back into the business this morning, but I didn’t come by way of a turnip truck, you know what I’m saying?

“You screw me around on this and I’m gonna get cranky right in your face. Now, I was your source on four-forty-three — big, fat byline above the fold? I think it’s time we play ‘What Have you Done for  _ Me _ Lately?’

“I’ll try, Rafaela, but—”

“I don’t want to hear that you’re going to try, Bruce,” she cuts him off. “This isn’t gym class.”

A cop on a motorcycle starts following her but she doesn’t stop talking. The siren blares.

“What?”

“I said ‘gym class.’”

“What?”

_ “Gym _ class?” Rafaela gives in and pulls over.

“What does gym class have to do with—”

“Bruce! Bruce!” She huffs. “Because it’s important in gym to try, but it is not necessarily — look, Bruce, it was a simple metaphor.”

If she never has to deal with him again it will be too soon. He’s an idiot and she only tolerates him to get what she needs. She knows that Bruce feels the same way about her.

The officer gets off his bike and approaches her.

“Now, listen up. You’re misinterpreting me and you’re misinterpreting the senator and it’s bush league reporting. It’s beneath even  _ your _ newspaper.”

“You know you ran a red light back there,” the police officer says.

“Hang on.” She switches which ear the phone is on.

“License and registration please.”

She holds up a finger. “Just a second.”

“License and registration,  _ now, _ please.”

Rafaela closes her eyes. 

“Listen, I’m under arrest, I’m gonna have to call you back,” she says and slams the phone shut. 

Denton and Jack stand in the Roosevelt Room, surrounded by a table full of economists. They’re laughing as the meeting ends and people stand to leave.

“Luther,” Denton says, “ball park, one year from today, where’s the DOW?”

“Tremendous. Up a thousand.”

“Fred, one year from today?”

“Not good. Down a thousand.”

“A year from today, at least one of you’s gonna look pretty stupid.”

They leave and Race enters. “We have a storm system moving into South Florida.”

“See? With any luck the Cubans will turn around and live to defect another day.”

“Yeah,” Jack says sarcastically, “because they’re probably all tuned to the National Weather Service, but that’s not what I’m here for.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“We gotta look at the whole field for a minute because I think we’re about to get tagged.”

Jack knows what he’s about to say won’t be taken well, but it’s going to be a little fun to watch.

“With regard to what?”

“Re-election.”

“We’re not there yet,” Denton tells him, leaving. Both Race and Jack follow him to the threshold.

“Don’t let John Mitchell push us around on Medicare or medium-range missiles,” he advises.

“You’re taking John Mitchell too seriously.”

“His numbers are starting to get interesting,” Race points out. 

“Hollywood likes him,” Jack adds. “He can raise money.”

“We’re not there yet.”

Jack leans against the doorframe. “Thirty second hypothetical: you’re John Mitchell, newly crowned prince of the white suburban woman, the upper-middle class black man, and the teacher’s union. You’re no friend of the sitting president. What do you do?”

“I put together an exploratory committee.”

“Who do you get to run it?”

“You.”

Jack smirks. “I already got a job.”

“For. The. Moment.”

He ignores him. “Who do you get?”

“Well, if I could get Rafaela to leave nine-hundred-thousand dollars a year at Lennox-Chase, I’d get Rafaela.”

“You’d be smart.”

He turns to Race. “Hey, come to think of it, you think she’d be interested in his job?” 

“You’re in luck,” Jack says. He’s smiling.

“She in town?”

“Just got here today.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Working for John Mitchell.”

Denton tosses his head back towards his office in frustration and yells “Romeo! Get me Senator Mitchell’s office on the phone.”

Jack and Race remain in the doorway, staring off into space until Race asks “Is that the same suit you wore yesterday?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

They part ways. 

“What do you want to know?” Rafaela asks Jack. They’re sitting in a diner waiting for their lunch to arrive. “Is John going to run?”

“I really don’t care one way or the other. He’s a lightweight.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Not when I can’t use him.” He shrugs. “No, I just want to know how much trouble he’ll be on the budget surplus.”

“You should get to know him,” she suggests.

“I have enough friends.”

“Not these days, you don’t.”

He chuckles. “Jeez, Rafaela, it’s not like these people were in our camp to begin with.”

“Right, Jack, and they’ve been waiting for you to trip over your mouth and you handed it to them. It’s Christmas morning for Mary Marsh.”

He doesn’t respond, just sips his coke.

“You’re a Fulbright scholar. Are you honestly the only adult in America who doesn’t think you’re about to be fired? Do what Spot’s telling you to do.”

Jack doesn’t respond to that either. He backtracks to something that’s been running through his mind since she said it. “Did you just call him ‘John’?”

“Who?”

“Senator Mitchell.”

“When?” She plays dumb.

“Just now. You said ‘What do you want to know? Is  _ John _ gonna run?’”

“I don’t remember.” It’s obviously a lie. He’s known her long enough to know that.

“It’s unusual that you’d call a senator by his first name to a third party.”

“A third party?”

“You know what I’m saying?”

“No, but as long as one of us does.”

“You’re  _ dating _ John Mitchell.” He smiles. It’s wide and mocking.

She smiles too. “Yes.”

Rafaela is as attractive as ever. Her raw umber skin and her long, jet-black hair. She looks almost the same as the day they met, but her eyes show her age a little. They look a lot less hopeful than he remembers.

“Wow. That’s great,” he tells her.

“Are you going to freak out?”

“No, not at all, I just always thought he was gay.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I did.” It’s easy to get a rise out of her and just as fun as it was when they were dating.

“He’s not gay.”

“You sure?”

_ “Very _ sure.”

“He always seemed effeminate to me,” he lies.

“He happens to be very athletic, plenty masculine.”

“I know plenty of athletic gay guys.”

“Jack, take me seriously.” She’s not joking around anymore.

“I do,” he assures.

She seems to size him up before leaning forward and saying “The  _ New York Times _ is going to release a poll in the next few days. It brings your unfavorables up to forty-eight percent.”

He shifts back to business mode. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

“You’ll have it in about an hour.”

“Where’d you get this?”

She scoffs. “We don't play for the same team anymore.”

“Wait a minute, one minute you’re giving me career advice, the next minute, you’re telling me we don’t play for the same team?”

“I’m gonna be here awhile and I want you at your fighting weight when I start bitch-slapping you guys around the beltway.”

Jack knows she’s serious too. Rafaela is good at her job. She has a PhD in political science (as she never fails to point out to him) and it’s obvious that she earned it. Luckily for Jack, he’s better at his. 

Their food arrives. 

“You and John Mitchell, huh?”

“Yeah.” 

They don’t break eye contact as they eat.

“Seventeen across,” Denton says into the phone. “Yes, seventeen across is wrong. You’re spelling his name wrong. What’s  _ my _ name? My name doesn’t matter. I’m just an ordinary citizen who relies on the  _ Times _ crossword for stimulation and I’m telling you that I’ve met the man twice and I’ve recommend a preemptive Exocet missile strike against his Air Force, so I think I know how to—”

“Denton!” Katherine reprimands him with just his name.

He puts the phone down. “They hang up on me every time.”

“That’s almost hard to believe,” she deadpans. 

“What do you need?”

_ “Nightline _ wants someone from the East Asian—”

“Send Naomi. What else?”

She jots it down.

“There might be a press leak on A3-C3.”

“That was Hearst. What else?”

“Denton…”

“Please don’t ask me about Jack. I honestly don’t know anything.”

It’s possible that he’s being honest — likely, even — but Katherine has serious doubts that he would tell her even if he did know. She wonders how he’s being casual about this. Jack is like a son to him, everybody knows it, and it’s upsetting to see him be so blasé.

“You know the president,” she counters, shaking the thought out of her head. It will be back later, but she can’t think about it right now.

“So do you.”

She stops writing on her notepad. “You know him better.”

“I’ve known him for thirty years, Katherine, and all I can promise you is on any given day, there’s really no predicting what he’s going to choose to care about.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. I’m late.”

He leaves and Katherine’s left standing there, halfway between frustration that she doesn’t know what to tell the press and fear for Jack’s job.

“Denton.”

Jack shows up at his office around noon, looking distraught. Of course, Denton isn’t exactly surprised by this — he’s been seeing a similar look in the mirror all morning, Jack has just been able to hide his a little better before now.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.”

Jack fidgets for a second before closing both of the open entrances to his office. He sits, then stands, then sits again.

“I need a promise from you.”

“You need a promise from me? You think today is the day to be asking me for something?”

“Yes. I need to know that if he does fire me, Davey still has a job.”

Denton puts down the briefing book he was reading and takes off his glasses. “What?”

That’s Jack’s main concern? That his assistant keeps his job? Their relationship was always a little strange, but this is just flat out bizarre — kind, yes, but bizarre. While the rest of the country is thinking about Jack’s job, Jack is apparently thinking about David’s job.

Then again, Denton probably shouldn’t be surprised. At heart, Jack is selfless — the most selfless person Denton knows — but he’s painted as an egotistical playboy. At times, it’s clear that it weighs on him somewhat.

“I hired him, not you or the president,” Jack says.

Denton zones back in.

“If I go, his contract is terminated.” His hands are a little shaky. “You know him, Denton, you know he’s capable of everything and willing to do anything. He’s…he’s smarter than me,” Jack admits. “Some days I’m not sure he isn’t the smartest person in the building.” He laughs humorlessly.

Denton has no intention of getting rid of David no matter what happens, but he wants to know what Jack is going to say next. He lets him continue.

“If he wasn’t raising his brother, he’d have gone to college. That’s the only reason he’s working for me and I’m not working for him.” There’s no doubt that Jack believes what he’s saying. There’s nothing Jack cares about more than this administration and he would never lie if it put it at risk. 

“He loves this job and this place and even if he didn’t, he’s good at it. Great at it, actually. And he needs it Denton. Christ, he needs it. His brother’s getting braces soon and…” He trails off. “Sorry. I know that doesn’t make a difference, but—”

“Jack,” Denton comforts, “David’s job is safe no matter what, okay?”

“Really?” Jack breathes. “Thanks. Okay. Thanks.”

“It never crossed my mind that it wasn’t.”

“Thanks. I…he didn’t ask me to come here, by the way. He doesn’t know we’re having this conversation.”

“That never crossed my mind either.”

“You can’t use those stats,” Mush says.

“The assault stats,” Blink clarifies.

“The assault stats are wrong.”

“We got them from your office,” Race tells them, not stopping on his way down the hall.

“We got them from HUD.”

“And they’re wrong?”

“Even if they were right, don’t use them,” Blink begs.

“A, let’s make them right, b, why can’t we use them?” Race pours himself a cup of coffee from the cart.

“The seventy-six-year-old grandmother.”

“Every time we use those assault stats they bring up—” 

“Who’s the seventy-six-year-old grandmother?”

“Every day, seventeen thousand Americans defend themselves with a gun—”

“That’s flatly untrue!”

“—including a seventy-six-year-old grandmother in Chicago who defended herself against an intruder in the middle of the night.”

“Just don’t use the stat,” Mush stresses.

“A seventy-six-year-old grandmother doesn’t defend herself with a modified AK-47 assault rifle, Blink, unless she’s defending herself against Turkish rebels.”

“I know that and you know that and Mush knows that, but it’s what they’ll say.”

His assistant comes up to him and he makes his escape.

“I need you for a second. Mrs. Denton called.”

“That woman hates me.”

“Yes,” she says with a hint of glee.

“What’d I do?”

“You tried to hit on her at a party fundraiser.”

“I meant recently. Why’d she call?”

“She wants you to talk—”

“For the hundredth time, I didn’t know who she was! How much longer am I gonna be crucified for it?” It really was a genuine accident. It was early on in the campaign. He didn’t know Denton well and he certainly didn’t know his wife well, or at all, as it turned out.

“Well, a little while longer.”

“I would think most women would be flattered,” he adds.

“Yeah, I think Denton was especially touched,” she says sarcastically, “and you’ve never sounded more like a man than when you said that.”

“What does she want?”

“She was supposed to give a tour to some students from her daughter’s fourth grade class, but she can’t make it and wants you to do it.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to,” Hot Shot insists. “They wrote essays.”

“No, really, I can’t. I’m not a good tour guide. I don’t know anything about the White House.”

“Do  _ you _ want to call Mrs. Denton and tell her that?” she asks as they arrive back at the communications bullpen.

His pager goes. “Please let this be a national emergency.” He dials the number.

“Cashmere Escorts.”

“Hi. You paged me?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Antonio Higgins.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman on the other end says, “there’s been a mistake.”

“Who’s this again?”

“Cashmere  _ Escort _ Service.”

He freezes for a moment, says “Okeydoke,” and hangs up. “Page me,” he tells Hot Shot.

“Where you going?”

“I’m standing right here. Page me and punch in the number.”

She doesn’t ask, but when she does it his pager doesn’t go off. He sighs.

“You switched pagers with someone.”

“A man’s about to call me and he’s not gonna know why. Put him through.” He goes in and closes the door to his office. The phone rings as soon as he sits down.

“Hello?”

“Hello? You paged me?” he says.

“Albert.”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Race. Race Higgins.”

“Hi,” he says happily. He sounds high. “You called me.”

“Yeah. Actually, you called me because you have my pager…and I have yours.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I come by and see you real quick?”

“Yeah.” His tone is a lot more subdued.

“I’m holding four column inches above the fold for this,” Billy says to another journalist as Katherine stomps through.

“Guys, I don't have a lot of time to answer questions right now,” she tells them as she tries to pass by and they’re all calling her name.

“Katherine,” Chris starts, “has—”

“But that doesn’t stop you from asking them. Chris?”

“Has the president had any reaction to Jack on the show?” she asks. 

“None that I’m aware of.” It’s an honest answer.

“Do you know if—”

“Seriously, that’s it. I’ll get you wheels-down time when I’ve got it.”

Spot is watching from the bullpen and waits for her to come in. “They’re picking up the scent,” he comments.

“Billy is,” she counters, “the rest of them are picking up Billy’s scent.”

“Jack is going to come to the coffee.”

“Keep him cool.”

“This president’s a religiously tolerant man, Reverend. I don’t need to tell you that.”

“No.”

“His work with the Southern Baptist Leadership Conference, his work with the Catholic League—”

“He’s spoken at my church.”

“Yes, he has.”

“Why does he insist on demonizing us as a group?”

“Because your group has plenty of demons.”

Al Caldwell scoffs.  _ “Every _ group has plenty of demons.”

“You don’t have to tell me about it, Reverend, I’m a member of the Democratic Party.”

They’re walking in front of the White House. Denton doesn’t have much time on any given day and the reverend was willing to meet him on his way to coffee as opposed to something formal. Denton is grateful. Most of his meetings with his staff — hell, most of everybody’s meetings with other staff — end up being just walking in hallways to other meetings. Occasionally, this practice spills into meetings with outside parties too.

“Well, then, why does the White House suddenly talk like everyone on the Christian right is the same?”

“Forgive me, Al,” he says genuinely, “but when you stand that close to Mary Marsh and John Van Dyke, it’s sometimes hard not to paint you all with the same brush.”

“I need John and Mary for political muscle,” he explains, emphasizing the last word with a pump of his fist.

“I don’t think you do, but I recognize you’re in a tough spot.”

“I’m not looking for a holy war, Bryan.”

“I know you’re not and I think that you and I can keep this from escalating beyond a petulant woman being angry about a snide remark made on tv.” He keeps his voice down in case any of the nearby tourists are paying attention.

“See? There you go again.”

“What?”

“It was  _ not _ a little deal!”

“No one’s saying—”

“If I make sure of nothing else, I want to make sure you take me seriously!” He stops walking.

“You don’t think we’re taking this seriously? Twenty-four hours ago the president ordered me to fire Jack Kelly. I’ve been trying to talk him down from it ever since. He’s getting off the plane in ten minutes. It’s six to five and pick ’em whether Jack still has a job. I don’t know how much more seriously we could be taking it.”

Caldwell nods. “Well, that’s regrettable.”

“Yes, it is. Anyway, I’m glad Spot organized your meeting this afternoon.”

“So am I.”

Race knocks nervously on Albert’s door. “Hi. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

“This is a nice apartment.”

“You saw it last night.”

“Yeah, and I really like it. It makes very good use of space.” He has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Thanks.”

“The way the ladle hangs from pegboards.”

Albert rolls his eyes playfully. “The ladle didn’t actually come with the apartment. It’s mine.”

“Oh. Right. Uh, can I ask you something?”

“Am I a hooker?” he replies without preamble. 

“No, no! What I was going to say is this: is it possible that in addition to being a law student and part-time bartender, that you are — what I’m certain would have to be — a very high-priced call boy? I’m not making any judgments or anything. The thing is, with my job—”

“Yeah.” He nods.

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I should have told you. I wanted you to like me.”

“I do.” He smiles sadly. “I have to go.”

“Race?”

He’s halfway to the door already.

“My pager?”

“Oh, right. Listen, I don’t know how often you get up—”

“Race, go. You don’t know who I am.” He gives a tight-lipped smile.

Race nods. “It’s just that there are people who’d pay a lot of money to try to—”

“I know. Go. It’s okay.” It seems like he’s being genuine, which only serves to make Race feel worse.

He takes the long way back to work. He’s only known him for one day, but he really likes Albert. If it weren’t for his job…

He shouldn’t think about it. Can’t.

“No,” Jack says.

“Put it on.” 

“No.”

“Put it on.”

“No!”

“You’ve been wearing the same clothes for thirty-one hours now, Jack. It’s gross.”

“I am not getting spruced up for these people, Davey.”

“All the girls think you look really hot in this shirt.”

He grabs it and puts it on.

“You’re late,” Hot Shot says disapprovingly as Race enters the building.

“I’m having kinda a weird day.”

“Denton’s daughter’s class is waiting with their teacher and a couple of parents in the Roosevelt Room.” She yanks his jacket off of him.

“I don’t know what to say to them.”

“You’re supposed to tell them about the building and its history. Do you need anything?”

“I need someone to tell me about the building and its history.”

“Just fake it.”

“I can’t fake it!”

“Of course, you can fake it,” she says like it’s easy.

They get outside the room and he looks in. “Which one’s Denton’s daughter?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I want to make a good impression. How have I never met her before?” Race bemoans. “What does she look like?”

Hot Shot shrugs. “I don’t know.” 

“Okay.” He places a gentle hand on her forearm. “I’d just like to thank you for all your help.”

“Sure.”

“All right, everybody,” a woman inside is saying to a Roosevelt Room full of children, “nicely and quietly, take a seat.” Her voice is light and sweet.

He pushes the door but it doesn’t open. Hot Shot reaches forward and pushes the other one — the one that actually opens — for him. He’s not off to a great start.

“Hi. I’m sorry to be late.” He shakes the teacher’s hand.

She’s objectively beautiful. Short red hair and a photoshoot-ready face of makeup. It’s natural looking and Race immediately thinks back to his sister explaining makeup to him in high school.

“I don’t want to look like a fifties pin-up girl every day,” she said. “Some days it’s just about looking put together.” This woman reminds him of that.

“Mr. Higgins, Mildred O’Brian,” she introduces herself. “There are the fourth graders at Greeley Elementary School who wrote the best essays on why they wanted to visit the White House.”

They have their hands folded on the table and they’re all sitting up straight.

“Well, that’s just great! Why don’t we get started?” He claps his hands together, a nervous tick he picked up from his mother years ago.

Ms. O’Brian sits.

“My name is Antonio Higgins and I’m the Deputy Communications Director. What does that mean, exactly? Well, to begin with, I’m a counselor to the president — mostly on domestic matters, though generally not security related. I work with Sean Conlon, the Communications Director and Katherine Plumber, the White House Press Secretary on crafting our message and getting it out through the electronic and print media.” He strolls around the long table as he speaks. “While my functions here are generally perceived to be politically skewed, it’s important to remember that it’s not the D.N.C., but, rather, your tax dollars that pay my salary, so I work for you, whether you voted for us or not.”

He realizes that he sounds like David, but he doesn’t remember how to speak normally. He’s met presidents, prime ministers, and kings, but it’s the fourth graders who scare him the most.

The kids look lost and he doesn’t blame them. Ms. O’Brian smiles awkwardly.

“Mr. Higgins, maybe you could give us some history.”

“Sure! I graduated law school six years ago and started working for—”

“Actually — I’m sorry to interrupt — actually, I meant the history of the building.”

Oh. Right. That.

“The White House?”

“Yes.”

“Sure!” he says with a lot more confidence than he feels. “The White House, as you know, was built several years ago, mostly, if I’m not mistaken, out of cement. The room we’re in right now — the Roosevelt Room — is very famous. It’s named after our eighteenth president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.” He’s riffing and he thinks it’s working. “The chairs that you’re sitting on are fashioned from the lumber of a pirate ship, captured during the Spanish-American war.”

“All right.” Ms. O’Brian stands up. 

The children are wide-eyed.

“Kids, I need to speak with Mr. Higgins. Sit tight for a second.”

He nervously follows her out into the hallway. Her hands are behind her back and Race feels like he’s one of her fourth graders.

“Hi,” she says.

“How you doing?”

“I’m sorry to be rude, but are you a moron?”

“In this particular area, yes,” he admits.

“The eighteenth president was Ulysses S. Grant and the Roosevelt Room was named for  _ Theodore.” _

“Really?”

“There’s like a six-foot painting on the wall of Teddy Roosevelt.” She sounds angry.

“I should’ve put two and two together,” Race concedes.

“Yes.”

There are people passing them in the hallway. Race doesn’t care if people hear him being schooled on basic history because they all know he’s an idiot, but he’s surprised and more than a little impressed by Ms. O’Brian’s confidence and indifference.

“The thing is while there really are a great many things on which I can speak with authority—” he still sounds like David “—I’m not good at talking about the White House.”

She blinks several times. “You’re the White House Deputy Communications Director and you're not good at talking about the White House?”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” He gives her his best cheeky smile.

“I don’t believe this.” She starts to go back in, but he stops her.

“Wait a minute, please. Could you do me a favor? Could you tell me which one of those kids is Bryan Denton’s daughter?”

“Why?” She’s glaring at him now. 

“If I could make eye contact with her, make her laugh, you know, just see that she’s having a good time, it might go a long way to making my life easier.”

It also makes his life easier that he isn’t Jack at the moment, but that doesn’t mean he can’t use the help. He knows Denton likes him, but he’d love it if his wife did too.

She looks at him with incredulity. “These children worked hard — all of them — and I’m not inclined at this moment to make your life easier.” Her fists are clenched.

“Ms. O’Brian, I understand your feelings, but please believe when I tell you I’m a nice guy having a bad day. I just found out that the  _ Times _ is publishing a poll that says a considerable portion of Americans feel the White House has lost energy and focus — a perception that’s not likely to be altered by the video footage of the president riding his bicycle into a tree. As we speak, the Coast Guard is fishing Cubans out of the Atlantic Ocean while the governor of Florida wants to blockade the port of Miami. A good friend of mine is about to get fired for going on television and making sense.  _ And _ it turns out that I accidentally slept with a prostitute last night. Now, would you please, in the name of compassion, tell me which one of those kids is my boss’s daughter?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment and he stands in fear. Then she smiles, her lip gloss shining under the fluorescent lights. He thinks, though he knows it’s inappropriate giving the setting and the situation, that she’s the kind of woman that he would be attracted to if he was attracted to women. The kind of woman he could try to force himself to be attracted to. 

“That would be me.”

Time stops and he’s suddenly more nauseous than he can recall ever being. “You?”

“Yes.” Her smile is evil now. 

“‘Denton’s daughter’s fourth grade class…’”

“Yes.”

He laughs. “Well, this is bad on so many levels!”

She turns around and walks back inside.

The Mural Room is full of speech writers and politicians representing the Christian right. Jack strollss in behind Spot and Katherine, head held high. He has David with him. If anything or anyone can keep him calm, it’s David.

“She’s gonna try and bait you, Jack, you understand what I’m saying?” Katherine whispers to him.

“John Mitchell,” he mumbles, “yeah, that’ll last.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“They’re gonna try and bait me,” he mirrors what she said.

“They want you to say something arrogant.”

“I don’t need baiting for that.”

“Hi, good afternoon,” Spot greets. They all shake hands and exchange pleasantries. Jack doesn’t participate because none of them even look at him.

He feels David standing behind him. 

“I’m happy you all could come talk with us today,” Spot says. “As you know, the president makes a usual Sunday morning radio address. In a few weeks, he’s scheduled—”

“Uh, Sean—” Al Caldwell cuts him off. “—if I could interrupt for just a moment. Uh, the goals and spirit of Christian and family-oriented organizations, while embraced by a great and growing number of Americans, have been met with hostility and contempt by their government. Now, yesterday morning on the television program  _ Capital Beat, _ that contempt was given a voice, and a face, and a name.” He faces Jack. “I’m referring, of course, to you, sir.”

He doesn’t sound angry, more disappointed. Anger, Jack finds, is always easier to deal with than disappointment.

“Yes, I know, and I’m glad you brought that up.”

“I’m surprised at you, Jack. I’ve always counted you as a friend.”

“And I’m honored by that, Reverend,” he says sincerely. “First, let me say that when I spoke on the program yesterday, I was not speaking for the president or this administration, that’s important to know. Second, please allow me to apologize.” He focuses on Mary Marsh. “My remarks were glib and insulting. I was going for the cheap laugh and anybody willing to step up and debate ideas deserves better than a political punch line. Mary, I apologize.”

She looks satisfied in a disconcerting way. “Good, then.” She shifts around so she’s facing only Katherine and Spot instead of all three of them. “Let’s deal.”

Everybody looks at her. It’s clear that some people are confused, some people are shocked, and everybody is uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry?” Spot replies.

“What do we get?”

“For what?”

“Insulting millions of Americans.”

“Well, like Jack said—”

“I heard what Jack said, Sean. What do  _ we _ get?”

“An apology.” It’s the calmest Jack has seen Spot be in a situation like this. He usually flies off the handle when he thinks somebody is overstepping or too arrogant.

“Sunday morning radio address. Public morals, school prayers or pornography — take your pick.”

“School prayer or pornography?” he repeats incredulously.

“It’s on every street corner,” John Van Dyke says, speaking for the first time in the course of the conversation.

“I’ve seen it. Mary—”

“Condoms in the schools,” she says.

“What?”

“Condoms in the schools.”

“Well that’s a problem,” he says.

“What?”

“We have a surgeon general who says they dramatically reduce the risk of teen pregnancy and AIDs,” Spot tells them, on edge.

“So does abstinence,” she counters.

Jack can practically feel Katherine’s struggle not to roll her eyes.

“Show the average American teenage male a condom and his mind will turn to thoughts of lust,” Van Dyke adds.

“Show the average American teenage male a lug wrench and his mind will—”

“Sean,” Katherine hisses.

“School prayer, pornography, condoms. What’s it going to be?”

Spot huffs. He sounds almost amused. Jack and Katherine let him be the one to answer.

“We’re not prepared to make any  _ sort _ of a deal right now.”

“Sure we are,” Jack says. “Mary—”

“My read of the land is that you’re cleaning out your desk before the end of business today so I’d just as soon negotiate with Sean, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Mary,” Reverend Caldwell says, evidently trying to get her to stop.

“Please allow me to work. It was only a matter of time with you, Jack. The way you and your assistant behave? That New York sense of humor you both have—”

“Mary!”

“Reverend, please! They think they’re so much smarter! They think it’s smart talk, but nobody else does.”

“He’s actually from Poland,” Jack says, “but that’s neither here nor there. The point is—”

“She meant Jewish.” Spot doesn’t raise his voice when he says it. A frosty silence falls on the room. “When she said ‘New York sense of humor.’ She was talking about you and me and David.”

He’s right and they all know it. Jack even heard a small shocked noise come out of David when she said it. 

“You know what, Sean, let’s not even go there,” Jack says quietly. Spot looks at him with disappointment and contempt.

“There’s been an apology,” Caldwell placates. “Let’s move on.”

“I’d like to discuss,” Van Dyke begins as Spot and Mary continue their searing eye contact, “why we hear so much talk about the First Amendment coming out of this building but no talk at all about the First Commandment.”

“I don’t like what I’ve just been accused of,” Mary spits.

“Well, I’m afraid that’s just tough, Mrs. Marsh.” Spot’s voice  _ is _ raised now.

“The First Commandment says ‘Honor thy father,’” Van Dyke continues.

“No, it doesn’t!”

“Sean…”

“It doesn’t!” he yells.

“Listen—”

“No! If I’m gonna make you sit through this preposterous exercise, we’re gonna get the names of the damn Commandments right!” he shouts.

“Okay, here we go!” Mary responds.

“‘Honor thy father’ is the Third Commandment!”

“Then what’s the First Commandment?” Van Dyke yells back.

“‘I am the Lord, your God. Thou shalt worship no other god before me,’” a booming voice comes from the outside. Its owner enters. President Joseph Pulitzer is standing in the doorway. He’s using a cane. “Boy, those were the days, huh?” he jokes.

Everybody stands. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. President.”

“Al.” He shakes his hand. “What do we got here, Katherine?”

“Well, we’ve got some hot tempers, Mr. President.”

“May I ask you a question, sir?” Van Dyke asks.

“Of course.”

“If our children can buy pornography for five dollars on every street corner, isn’t that too high a price to pay for free speech?”

President Pulitzer shakes his head. “No.”

“Really?”

“On the other hand, I do think that five dollars is too high a price to pay for pornography.”

Jack can tell that even Spot is hiding a small grin at that.

“Why don’t we all sit down?”

“No, let’s not, Katherine. These people won’t be staying that long. Al, how many times have I asked you to denounce the practices of a fringe group that calls itself the Lambs of God?”

Just from the question, Jack can tell something is about to go down. He’s not sure if he should be excited or terrified. With his luck, probably the second.

“Sir, that’s not up to me,” Caldwell defends.

“Crap. It is up to you, Al.” He moves behind the couch towards the fireplace. “You know, my wife, Kate, she never wants me to do anything while I’m upset.” 

Jack and Katherine look at each other. There’s nothing better and nothing worse than their boss’s stories.

“Twenty-eight years ago, I came home from a very bad day at the State House. I tell Kate I’m going out for a drive.”

The door opens and Denton and Race enter quietly.

“I get in the station wagon, put it in reverse and pull out of the garage full speed. Except I forgot to open the garage door.” He chuckles. “Kate told me not to drive while I was upset and she was right. And she was right yesterday when she told me not to get on that damn bicycle while I was upset, but I did it anyway. And I guess I was just about as angry as I’ve ever been in my life.

“Seems my granddaughter Elinor had given an interview in one of those teen magazines and somewhere between movie stars and makeup tips, she talked about her feelings on a woman’s right to choose. Now Elinor, all of twelve, has always been precocious, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders and I like it when she uses it, so I couldn’t understand it when her father called me in tears yesterday. I said ‘Joseph, what’s wrong?’ He said ‘It’s Elinor.’

“So I want you to tell me—” he looks at the three religious leaders “—from what part of holy scripture do you suppose the Lambs of God drew their divine inspiration when they sent my twelve-year-old granddaughter a Raggedy Ann doll with a knife struck through its throat?”

The atmosphere (if possible) gets tenser. Mary Marsh looks at the floor, John Van Dyke stands still, and Al Caldwell looks appalled.

“You’ll denounce these people, Al. You’ll do it publicly. And until you do, you can all get your fat asses out of my White House. Katherine, show these people out.”

“I believe we can find the door,” Mary says.

“Find it now.”

“We’ll fix this, Bryan,” Caldwell says on his way out.

“See that you do.”

As they leave, the senior staff and David follow the president to the Oval Office.

“Okay, can I just say that, as it turned out, I was the calmest person in the room?” Jack points out.

“Hey.”

“Way to stay cool,” Katherine tells Spot. 

“I am not empowered to auction off the Bill of Rights,” he defends.

“I thought you were going to take a swing at her.”

“She was calling us New York Jews, Davey.”

“Yeah, but being from Poland, I didn’t mind so much.”

Spot snorts.

“You, Katherine, on the other hand,” Jack says, “you were brilliant. I particularly liked the part where you said nothing at all.”

“I’m sorry, Jack. I was distracted,” she says sarcastically. “All I could really think about was John Mitchell and your  _ girlfriend.” _

“Rafaela and John Mitchell?” Race exclaims.

“I’ll be putting an end to that,” he assures them. 

“Hello, Mr. President,” Pulitzer interrupts. “Did you have a nice trip, sir? How’s the ankle, sir?”

They stop talking. 

“Seems to me we’ve all been taking a little break. Thinking about our personal lives…or thinking about keeping our jobs?”

Jack looks down at the carpet.

“Breaks are good. It’s not a bad idea to take a break every now and then. I know how hard you all work.”

An aide comes in and hands him a piece of paper. He glances at it and then looks back up at them.

“There was this time that Elinor came to me with this press clipping. Seems these theologians down in South America were all excited because this little girl from Chile had sliced open a tomato and the inside flesh of the tomato had actually formed a perfect rosary. The theologians commented that they thought this was a very impressive girl. Elinor commented that she thought it was a very impressive tomato.” He put on his reading glasses. “Don’t know what made me think of that.”

“Naval intelligence reports approximately twelve-hundred Cubans left Havana this morning. Approximately seven-hundred turned back due to severe weather. Some three-hundred-fifty are missing and presumed dead. One-hundred-thirty-seven have been taken into custody in Miami and are seeking asylum.

“With the clothes on their back, they came through a storm and the ones that didn’t die want a better life and they want it here. Talk about impressive.”

It’s moments like this that make Jack feel like a part of something bigger than himself. Moments when he’s standing in the Oval Office and the President of the United States speaks poignantly and eloquently to a room full of people he trusts.

“My point is this: break’s over.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Denton says. They echo the sentiment and slowly drift out. Jack is the last one to get to the door.

“Jack.”

He turns around.

“‘Too busy being indicted for tax fraud’?”

Jack takes a deep breath and prepares for the worst. 

“Don’t ever do it again.”

The ball of tension inside of his stomach releases. 

“Yes, sir.” He shuts the door behind him.

“Hannah!” He hears the president shout to the outer office. “What’s next?

**Author's Note:**

> This is ongoing but there’s no regular schedule I’m just going to update whenever I feel like writing an episode. Apologies in advance.
> 
> There are hundreds of characters throughout the series, so most characters that only appear once or twice will have the names they do in the show (although I’m throwing in random nineteenth century politicians for the names of the politicians).


End file.
